


Show Me Your Scars

by pogopop



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Foggy Nelson Is a Good Bro, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, Matt is a dumbass, POV Foggy Nelson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 00:15:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28501344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pogopop/pseuds/pogopop
Summary: Foggy doesn't bother to announce his arrival with a knock. If Matt is conscious, he'll have heard Foggy long before he slid his key into the door. If Matt hasn't heard him… well, Foggy isn't letting himself think about unconsciousness, or worse.It's dark in Matt’s entryway, of course, vague blotches of colour mottling the cavern that Matt uses as a lounge. Foggy drops his keys and a sigh on the side table, and flicks on the hall light. He can see a tuft of dark hair at the end of the couch, and his back is thankful he won't be scraping Matt off the floor.--This is set in that horrible time after season 2, when Matt and Foggy aren't on good terms. Matt is working with the Defenders.
Relationships: Jessica Jones & Matt Murdock, Matt Murdock/Franklin "Foggy" Nelson
Comments: 18
Kudos: 120
Collections: DDE’s 2021 New Year’s Day Exchange





	Show Me Your Scars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AsperJasper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsperJasper/gifts).



> For AsperJasper. A day or so late, but I hope you enjoy it. I was only very loosely inspired by your prompts, probably mostly by the song Cannonball, by Barns Courtney.
> 
> Thank you SO MUCH to Metaderivative and gelishan for helping me pull this one out at the last minute.

Foggy doesn't bother to announce his arrival with a knock. If Matt is conscious, he'll have heard Foggy long before he slid his key into the door. If Matt hasn't heard him… well, Foggy isn't letting himself think about unconsciousness, or worse. 

It's dark in Matt’s entryway, of course, vague blotches of colour mottling the cavern that Matt uses as a lounge. Foggy drops his keys and a sigh on the side table, and flicks on the hall light. He can see a tuft of dark hair at the end of the couch, and his back is thankful he won't be scraping Matt off the floor. 

"What are you doing here, Foggy?" Matt's coherent, even. Wonders will never cease.

"You know, it's great being wanted." Foggy nearly turns on his heel to leave, but he doesn't. Instead, he takes slow, deliberate steps, as he moves away from the warm light of the hall and towards the purplish billboard-lit gloom of the lounge. "It makes my day. Or, whatever you call this sort of time."

Matt grunts but doesn't turn his head to track Foggy as he ambles over to perch on the edge of the coffee table. Matt's half-sitting, stretched out full length. His eyes are closed, and he looks pinched, in pain, even as the lights dance across his face. Foggy can’t identify any visible injuries. "There's no reason for you to be here," Matt says.

"That's where you're wrong." Foggy waits, but Matt gives him nothing more, so he sighs. Matt seems to make him sigh more and more these days. He decides to stick to fact. "Jones told me you might need a welfare check."

Matt shakes his head slightly without opening his eyes, so Foggy stops trying. He stands, walks to the kitchen and fills a glass with water, snagging a bottle of pills from the shelf on his way back. He puts the glass on the coffee table, where Matt can reach it easily, and shakes the bottle before throwing it on Matt's stomach. "Ibuprofen." Matt opens his eyes, picks up the bottle and runs his fingers over the braille label, like he doesn't believe Foggy and needs to confirm for himself. 

Foggy thrusts his hands in his pockets and watches as Matt twists the cap off the bottle with some difficulty, and shakes out two capsules. He swallows the pills, then reaches out, groping for the glass, but his aim’s off. He must be feeling pretty bad. Foggy takes Matt’s flailing hand and guides it to the glass. 

“Thanks,” Matt says, grudging. Foggy knows how much Matt hates feeling helpless, so he shrugs. Matt drains the glass, and manages to get it back on the coffee table without smashing it. “I’m fine, really.”

“Yeah, sure,” Foggy says. Matt really does look miserable. He has dark circles under his eyes, and his breaths come short. Foggy casts about and spots a blanket hanging over the back of one of the armchairs. He picks it up, shakes it out, spreads it over Matt. God, he hates this asshole. “Ribs?”

Matt nods, curtly, then says, “You don’t need to stay.”

“Oh, I know.” Foggy paces over to the window and looks through one of the grimy panes, down into the darkened alley, still with the heavy humidity of summer, then back over his shoulder. “Want to tell me what happened tonight?”

“C’mon, Foggy. What do you want here?” Matt squirms slightly, pulling the blanket around himself.

“Whatever. I’ll get out of your hair.” Foggy turns and leans against the brickwork, holds up a finger. “Just tell me one thing.”

Matt raises a questioning brow, as his hands squeeze the blanket.

“What’s CPLR 3211?” Foggy asks.

Matt frowns in confusion. “What?”

“You heard me. CPLR 3211. What is it? What’s it for?” 

“Motion to dismiss?” Matt replies. “Or is this something cryptic?”

Foggy relaxes and wanders closer to Matt. “Nah, you got it right. I’m just testing your lucidity.” Testing that Matt’s safe to be on his own.

“With my knowledge of New York’s consolidated laws?”

“It’s not something you’d forget easily.”

Matt concedes the point by tilting his head. “So now you want me to dismiss you?”

“Don’t imagine you’re the one calling the shots, here.” Foggy stands where he is, studying Matt’s face while he tries to decide between coffee, alcohol, and the door. “You know it would be an enormous pain in my ass if you died, right?” Foggy asks. “So I need you to promise that if I leave you won’t die.”

“I will never die,” Matt quotes, the corner of his mouth quirking.

Foggy snorts, suddenly on the edge of laughter. "Yeah. Okay, Gary." He sobers, looking again at Matt’s taut face. “Don’t lie to me. Are you going to be okay if I leave you alone?”

“I told you, I’m fine.”

Foggy nods absently. “Gary was a better actor than you.” He doesn’t really believe Matt’s ‘fine,’ but Matt also doesn’t look like he’s lining up to shuffle off this mortal coil. “You want any help getting in bed?”

Matt closes his eyes again, shakes his head. “I’m here for the night.” 

“Need the bathroom?”

“Foggy. I’m not an invalid.”

“Okay.” Foggy nods. “Okay. See you, man.”

Matt says nothing as Foggy walks away. It’s for the best, really.

**_____**

He spots them, a week or so later, walking towards him on the opposite side of the street. Matt’s grinning like an idiot, and Jess is trying to hide her own smile, looking at him with fondness. Foggy’s glad they’re working together, he really is. Matt needs someone looking out for him, and Foggy appreciates the sporadic texts she sends him. Matt’s even holding her elbow, the way he used to hold Foggy’s. 

Foggy readjusts the strap of his briefcase where it’s suddenly cutting into his shoulder. Because he can’t tear his eyes away he sees Matt’s smile falter, his head tilt, and because Jess is looking right at Matt she catches it, too. She tenses, scans the street as Matt shakes his head slightly and mutters something. Jess relaxes, turns her head to look across the street just as they draw level and locks eyes with Foggy, raising her brows. Foggy half-smiles then looks away and carries on with his journey. He can’t let this derail him. He has clients to meet, a reputation as a capable lawyer to uphold. He even manages to whistle.

And if Karen can’t meet him for drinks that night, and he spends the night crying into his whisky glass alone in his apartment, no one needs to know.

The next day he gets a text.

_ Sort your shit out _

_ I’m not the one with the shit, _ he replies.

Then he adds,  _ Thanks for texting last week.  _

Jess replies surprisingly quickly.  _ He was pissed at me _

_ He’s an asshole _

_ Agreed _

_ Keep him alive, please, Jones _

Jess doesn’t reply to that one.

**_____**

Foggy sees Matt in other places. At the courthouse, in a cafe. He can’t help but scan him for injuries, knowing that his heart’s pitter-pattering in his chest betrays his concern, and finding no new injuries, subsequent relief. Or pulling at the sight of a poorly-masked limp, a black eye not-so-hidden by dark glasses.

When Foggy sees Matt unexpectedly, he tries to feel revulsion, but he can’t. Instead, being close to Matt Murdock summons pain, and frustration, and despair. The feeling swirl and threaten to drown him, and he waits for them to coalesce into a single entity, something he can name and vanquish. He expects it to be disgust, loathing, or even hatred, but that hasn't happened yet. And Foggy can’t work out why. So he learns that after he sees Matt he’ll lose his appetite, that his breath will catch, that his body will worry.

There’s something else that he feels, in the centre of his chest, but he stubbornly refuses to name it. All the time and betrayal hasn’t weathered away its rough edges, and it has a habit of spiking him at the most inconvenient times. It would bring him to his knees, if he let it.

Matt always plays their encounters perfectly straight, never betraying what he might be reading from Foggy’s traitorous body, never straying from polite yet distant when they need to interact.

Foggy knows there’s chatter at the courthouse -  _ What happened to Nelson and Murdock? They were practically married, and now I never see them together.  _

Foggy lived through the past months, but he doesn’t know, either. He doesn’t know how they ended up here, and if they can ever get to a new place.

**_____**

The next time Jess contacts him, she calls. At the panic in her voice he bolts out of his warm bed. Foggy has never heard her panic before.

When he arrives at Matt’s apartment his hands are shaking and he struggles to slide his key into the lock, but before he can manage it the door swings open, revealing a broad chest, clad in a hoodie flecked with bullet holes. Luke nods and steps aside wordlessly as Foggy pushes past him, searching for Matt. 

All the lights are on, which isn’t saying a lot. The poor lighting casts deep shadows, appropriate for a man with too many dark secrets. Foggy has eyes only for Matt, stretched out on the couch again, bare to the waist and with an arcing red line of sutures across his chest. His breathing is so shallow that for a moment Foggy fears the worst. Matt’s deathly pale, his lashes dark against his cheek, and gives no sign whatsoever that he’s clocked Foggy’s arrival. The bright splash of red on the floor paints a picture in crimson that takes Foggy back to another night, another pool of blood. Foggy feels his legs weaken underneath him.

Foggy turns to look at Claire, where she’s kneeling beside the coffee table, cleaning up her supplies. Surgical instruments clatter into a plastic box, alongside the once-sterile wrappings of her surgical kit and little suture packets. It’s less tidy than usual, as though Claire was rushing. Claire’s hands are shaking, and her movements are jerky. She looks like she’s gone beyond her standard frustration, like she’s been grappling with fear.

Claire glances at him, then back at her work. “If Danny hadn’t got here quickly….” Claire cuts herself off and swallows hard, composes herself. “There’s only so much I can do like this.” She gestures angrily and shakily at her supplies, at Matt’s prone form, and throws bloody swabs into the box. “This isn’t an operating theatre.”

Foggy lets out a long, shuddering breath. “Thank you, Claire,” he says. He knows it’s inadequate, that it doesn’t even begin to cover what happened here tonight or any of the other nights before. . 

Claire pauses, her tidying finished, and there’s a stillness to her. It’s like the night has drawn in, circling the three of them in a hideous diorama. Foggy feels himself frozen and watches as Claire looks at Matt, still as death. She shakes her head minutely, then slowly rises to her feet.

Jess is suddenly there, holding a cup of coffee in Claire’s direction, and the moment passes. Claire takes the cup with resigned relief, and Foggy shivers in surprise. He hadn’t noticed Jess at all. He looks over and sees Danny slumped at the dining table, chopsticks in hand and an empty take-out container beside him.

“Drink that, and I’ll take you home,” Jess tells Claire, then looks at Luke. “You’re in charge of Fisty.” Luke nods, and wanders over to Danny, poking him in the side with a finger.

“Ow!” Danny yelps, and stands up stiffly.

“Quit being so dramatic,” Jess grouses.

“It takes a lot of energy to channel my Qi like that-” Danny begins, but Luke picks him up and hefts him over a shoulder. Danny protests briefly, pounding ineffectually against Luke’s back, then gives up, sagging in defeat. Luke nods at Foggy, and makes for the roof access stairs, disappearing up them more quickly and quietly than a man his size should be able to.

Claire knocks her coffee back, and discards the cup on the table, looks hard at Foggy. “You need to stay with him.”

Foggy nods. “How long will he be like this?”

She shrugs. “He’s lost a lot of blood. Danny’s fist is kinda miraculous, but I think it has limits.”

“Just tell me what I need to know. Please.”

Claire and Jess exchange a look, and Jess clears her throat. “Luke and Danny were working together, Matt and I were doing a different area. Matt got cut bad. It was deep,” Jess supplies. “We were close so I called the others then got him here, and Claire met us, but…” Her already-pale skin turns whiter still, and she swallows hard.

“Luke and Danny showed up when we needed them to,” Claire says. She looks again at Matt, and he watches her watching Matt. “He’s going to need to rest for a few days,” Claire says.

Foggy laughs mirthlessly. “Have you met Matt?” he asks.

“He might not have any choice this time. Keep him warm, make him drink and eat. Call me only if you need to. You know the drill.”

Foggy nods, following Claire and Jess with his eyes as they disappear around the corner. The front door opens and closes, and Foggy is alone with Matt. He rubs his arms, feeling the sudden chill of fall, and looks down at the person he once called his best friend. Matt’s still unconscious, and he looks cold. 

In Matt’s room Foggy digs out socks, sweats, and a hoodie, and the soft blanket Matt keeps at the end of his bed. He spreads the blanket over Matt, and piles the clothing on the coffee table. Foggy allows himself another look at Matt’s face, and he feels the spiky thing flip over in his chest. He tucks in the edges of the blanket, to keep Matt warm, and goes to make himself a coffee.

Foggy’s left a few magazines and a couple of novels at Matt’s apartment, and they’re still in a small, neat pile on the bottom shelf of the bookcase. He retrieves his old, dog-eared copy of  _ Pride and Prejudice _ , and sits down in the armchair closest to the window. From here the billboard lights Matt’s face, and Foggy can look up every few pages to check that Matt’s still breathing.

Foggy sets the book aside and stretches, and walks over to stand above Matt. Matt’s skin in waxy, but his breathing is smoother, a little deeper. Foggy should be angry at Matt, but he’s just sad, worried and lonely. He wants his best friend back.

Foggy sinks slowly to his knees and reaches up a hand to stroke back Matt’s hair. His skin is clammy, which Foggy remembers tends to happen when someone nearly bleeds out. His stomach twists again with fear for Matt, and for a fleeting moment Foggy imagines a world without Matt in it. It’s a dark place. But Matt is here and breathing. Foggy finds himself leaning in and pressing a gentle kiss to Matt’s forehead. 

Because this is Foggy’s life, Matt chooses this moment to stir and groan, and Foggy jumps back.

“Jess?” Matt asks, eyes pinching tightly.

“Sorry, man, it’s just me.”

“Fog?” Matt croaks, uncertain. “I can’t, I’m not.” He swallows and his eyes open, roving aimlessly and frantically as he brings one hand to the wound on his side. Foggy’s seen Matt’s eyes wander like this before, when he’s disoriented, so he grabs for Matt’s clammy hand and gives it a squeeze. Matt holds on tight, a drowning man clutching a lifering, and the lost look fades from his face. He clears his throat. “When did you get here?”

“A while ago. Jess called me.”

Matt closes his eyes again. “Claire was here.”

“She was.”

“She stitched me up.”

“Ye-es. And I think that, maybe, Danny did the magic healing glowing fist thing? Claire seemed kinda upset.”

“Because Danny took over?”

“More like…” Foggy swallows, fighting down an edge of panic. “She nearly lost you.”

“Oh. Mmm.” Matt pauses, like he’s taking stock of his body. “That tracks.” His tone lacks inflection.

“How do you feel?”

“Fine.”

“Oh fuck you, Murdock.” That earns him a half-smile. “You thirsty?” Foggy asks, reaching for casual, but falling wide of the mark.

Matt swallows, with effort, and licks his lips. “Um. Yes.”

Foggy lets go, and doesn’t miss that Matt flexes his hand, like he hadn’t realised they were still holding each other, before slipping it under the blanket. 

In the kitchen, he fills the electric kettle and puts it on to boil for tea, then retrieves a bottle of water from the fridge. There’s not much food on hand, looks like Danny got to the leftovers, but at least there’s bread for a sandwich.

“It’s late, Foggy. Go home to bed.”

Foggy aggressively ignores this, setting out two mugs with tea bags, and retrieving milk and sugar. He starts slapping together two PB&Js, and finds half a block of dark chocolate in the usual spot. The jug clicks off, and he fills the mugs. The familiarity of the task is soothing, distracting. Matt doesn’t seem to be as aware of Foggy’s movements as he usually is, and he hasn’t tried to sit up. 

As the tea bags steep, Foggy prepares himself for the conversation he knows is coming. He has to be the instigator. 

Tea bags out, Foggy adds milk and honey. Matt doesn’t like his tea sweet, but he gets less choice on a night when he nearly died. Foggy he tucks the water bottle under his arm, picks up the plate of sandwiches and chocolate, and carries Matt’s mug over to the lounge. “You need one of those lap trays they make for old people.”

Matt groans as he pushes himself up into a sitting position. Foggy stuffs a piece of chocolate at Matt’s mouth and he makes a face, but takes it without protest. The blanket has slipped down, and goosebumps stipple Matt’s chest, his nipples standing out, hard. Foggy hands Matt the hoodie and Matt takes it with surprise, running his hands over it to orient himself before slowly and painfully pulling it on and lifting the hood up over his head.

“Drink your tea,” Foggy says, and goes back to collect his own. He snags the whisky bottle and pours a hefty tot into his cup before returning to sit in one of Matt’s armchairs.

“Do I get some of that?” Matt asks. 

“Maybe when you’ve got your blood volume up again.”

Matt’s surprisingly tractable, eating his sandwiches without complaint. Of course, it’s not particularly reassuring because Foggy knows it means that Matt’s got to be feeling terrible. 

They sit in relative silence, Matt seemingly focused on drinking his tea without spilling it, until Foggy realises it’s past 5am. He pulls himself out of the airchair and goes to switch on Matt’s espresso machine. 

When Foggy moves away, Matt reaches for the rest of his clothing. Foggy lurks in the kitchen while Matt dresses slowly, awkwardly, dropping his pants and kicking them under the coffee table. Foggy’s seen this enough times to know better than to offer help. Matt pulls on one sock then sits back, panting. Foggy despairs for Matt and his abysmal sense of self-worth. He wishes he could love Matt into healing, but he knows it doesn’t work like that. When Matt stands to pull up his sweatpants he sways slightly and clutches the back of the couch for balance. Foggy looks away, attends to the coffee, makes his own Irish.

Foggy puts Matt’s coffee on the coffee table in front of him, although Matt’s lying down and doesn’t reach for the cup. Foggy sits down again in the armchair, balancing his mug as he leans back, and fixes Matt with a stare he hopes Matt can feel. 

“So.”

“So. You heading out?” 

“I’m here to look after you,” Foggy says.

Matt scowls a little. “Don’t you have work?”

“It’s Saturday.” Foggy spreads his hands wide, like a magician presenting his trick. “I can stay all weekend.”

Matt makes a noise of frustration. “Just go, Foggy.”

“No can do. I’m staying.”

“You’ve left before.”

Foggy feels a stab of anger. “Because you told me to. You made it very clear that you didn’t want me around again.”

Matt’s jaw tenses, and Foggy takes a deep breath, willing himself to regain some calmness. When he speaks again, he’s proud that his voice doesn’t shake.

“We’ve already been through this, and I have no interest in doing it again.” He takes another breath. “You matter to me, Matt. Once upon a time I met this cool guy and we became friends and spent tons of time together. I even started a business with him.”

“And then you found out he wasn’t who you thought he was,” Matt says, with a wide, dismissive gesture.

“Yeah, and it sucked.” Foggy looks down at the hands in his lap and realises he’s wringing them. 

“So why are you still here? I thought we were done.” 

Foggy looks up at that. “I’m not done.” 

“Foggy. I feel like shit. I don’t want to do this now.” Matt does look like shit, but that’s not the point here.

“Yea, well, you never want to talk about it on the rare day you’re uninjured, so...”

“So drop it.” Matt’s face is blank, emotion masked, facing the wall in front of him, not Foggy.

“Stop pushing me away, Matt”

A flicker of anger crosses Matt’s face. “You’re only here out of a misplaced sense of loyalty.”

“Misplaced? Matt. Why can’t you accept that I want to be here?”

“Because you don’t. Because I’m...”

“What?” 

Matt closes his eyes and tips his head back, inhales like he’s praying for strength. Then he straightens, facing Foggy head on. “I’m not worth it.”

“This again. You must think I’m a poor judge of character.”

“Maybe when it comes to me,” Matt says, nodding.

“You’re such a selfish asshole.”

Matt nods again, agreeing, which is frankly irritating. “Also, I’m not. Not. I…”

“Not what, Matt? Reliable? A good decorator? Because I already knew that.”

“I’m not.” Matt stops again, takes a deep breath. “It’s not you, it’s me. You know that. I’m just…” Matt still can’t finish the thought.

“Are you trying to say that you’re not likable? Because I think you know that’s not true. You’re… magnetic.”

“Until people find out who I really am.”

Fogy shuffles forward in his seat and rests his elbows on his knees, leaning towards Matt. “Matt, I need you to listen to what I’m about to say. Okay? You have inherent worth as a human, and you matter to me, very much. And that isn’t contingent on us getting along all the time, or you avoiding injury, although I’d really prefer it if you didn’t get hurt. So stop trying to push me away, because I like things a lot better when we aren’t fighting. Or we can squabble, but it’s not the end of the world.”

Matt’s averted his face, away from Foggy and the billboard. He bites his lower lip and shakes his head slightly, and doesn’t reply.

“I love you, man,” Foggy says. “And it hurts seeing you be self-destructive. But that doesn’t stop me loving you.”

Matt squeezes his eyes shut, and Foggy sees a glistening tear slide down the curve of his cheek. Matt’s jaw works, and Foggy waits him out, giving him time to speak.

“There’s a difference between what you tell me I should know, and what I believe,” Matt finally says.

Foggy hates everyone who has left Matt over the years. But he can’t hate Matt.

“You’re so smart, Matt, but you don’t understand feelings at all.”

Suddenly the space between them yawns, impossibly far, and Foggy has to bridge it. In a rush, he stands and moves to sit beside Matt on the couch, and he reaches across Matt’s lap to pick up his left hand from where it’s balled in a fist on his thigh, forcing Matt to turn his shoulders towards Foggy. 

Foggy looks at Matt’s hand. The knuckles are bruised, of course, but it’s the same hand that he’s seen reading, skimming over surfaces in a real or feigned search for information, the same hand that’s so often held firmly but lightly to Foggy’s elbow.

Gently, Foggy unfurls Matt’s fingers, spreading them wide and lifting Matt’s hand to press against the centre of Foggy’s chest, with his own hand spread above it.

The rest of Matt unfurls along with his hand, softening and reaching towards Foggy.

Foggy watches as the lines of tension in Matt’s face ease, and he seems to tune in to the beat of Foggy’s heart. The spiky thing in the middle of Foggy’s chest warms and pulses and softens, and Foggy finally lets himself name it - it is love. Foggy’s love for Matt. And Matt Murdock might be clever with words and stupid with emotions, but no one feels the world the way Matt does.

Foggy leans forward and kisses Matt’s forehead again, gentle and warm, then presses his forehead to Matt’s.

“I’m tired, Foggy.”

Foggy murmurs in agreement. “I know. So am I. And I miss you.”

Matt reaches with his other hand to cup Foggy’s shoulder, a finger playing over the scar under the sleeve of Foggy’s sweater.

Foggy kisses Matt’s forehead again, then pulls back slightly. “You haven’t touched that scar before, have you?” Foggy asks. Matt pulls his hand away, like he’s just realised what he’s doing, and shakes his head, frowning. “It’s okay.” Foggy has to release Matt’s other hand, but he shrugs his left arm out of its sleeve and pulls the bottom edge of his sweater up so that his entire arm and half his torso are bare. “Feel away.”

Cautiously, Matt reaches out with his right hand and touches one fingertip with unerring accuracy, exactly where the bullet left its mark. Foggy watches as fleeting emotions chase each other across Matt’s face. “I’m sorry I didn’t visit you in the hospital,” Matt says. He presses his palm flat over the scar for a moment, lifting his hand away only to press a kiss of his own to Foggy’s skin, to his scar. Foggy shivers.

Matt’s hand moves again, sensitive fingertips trailing from Foggy’s arm across to his chest and grazing a nipple. He pauses, all five fingertips there with the lightest of touches over Foggy’s heart, before his hand spreads out. Foggy feels the contact like it’s a brand.

Foggy lifts his right hand. He has to unzip Matt’s hoody, but then he’s pressing his own hand over Matt’s heart, and confusion, joy and hope are chasing each other across Matt’s face.

Matt leans forward and kisses Foggy on the lips. It’s sweet and gentle, but when Matt presses in more firmly Foggy moves back.

Matt doesn’t look like he’s about to jump out the window, but he does look uncertain. “You don’t want...?” Matt asks.

“Oh, I do. You have no idea. But you’re hurt and tired and you have a very soft bed in the next room, and maybe we’ve done enough talking for now.”

“Want to spoon?” Matt asks, and the hope on his face nearly breaks Foggy’s heart.

“Yes I do, my spoony little friend. And we can talk later.”

Matt smiles, and it’s like seeing the sun burst over rain-drenched lands that had almost forgotten a sun existed. “Later.” And Foggy takes Matt’s hand in his, helps him carefully to his feet, and leads him to bed.


End file.
